


Love Don't Die

by sunryder



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Future, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 10:41:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunryder/pseuds/sunryder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In life, these flowers were the color of particularly red chestnuts, with copious white stamens sticking out from amongst haphazardly placed petals. They were not the prettiest of flowers, and probably many a Dwarf over the years had puzzled over why out of all the world’s blossoms the Hobbit had put them in Thorin’s grip.</p>
<p>It would take a Hobbit, a Hobbit with a sad story of their own, to know that these blooms were sweet scabious, better known as the Mourning Bride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Don't Die

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens what happens when I listen to the Aida soundtrack. 
> 
> Title from The Fray's new song, "Love Don't Die," which is what made me want to re-listen to Aida in the first place. (They're thematically connected.)

The Ancient Erebor exhibit had been done up with the same smooth, stone walls and gilded pillars that Bilbo always saw in movies about Dwarven history. It made some secret part of him remember how he used to spend days at a time pretending to be that unnamed hero Hobbit who’d gone all the way to Erebor and made himself a part of history.In truth, it was the memory of that story that had driven Bilbo to hunt down tickets to this travelling exhibition.

 

No one knew what had driven the Royal Family of Erebor to change their centuries-long stance against allowing their nation’s prized historical treasures to leave the safety of their kingdom and go on tour through Middle-earth, and Bilbo didn’t much care. What few things pieces there were that had ever been seen outside the mountains – either through theft or Dragon-induced migration – had been won back through the Royal Family’s rather vicious legal team setting international antiquities precedent. (And there were rumors that when other nations decided to ignore those demands, the clever Dwarves managed to steal everything back anyway.)

 

Here today there was the axe of Gimli, the sword of Nain I, the striking treasures crafted by unnamed Dwarves of Nogrod, relics from the treasury of Mim, the last record of Balin, Lord of Moria, and more than Bilbo could ever imagine. Each artifact was suspended in a glass case, the objects all but hovering in the air for viewers to behold the perfect craftdwarfship from every angle. The walking space between each display was kept in a sort of faded darkness, to resemble the cave the room was trying so hard to emulate. That left each of the artifacts in its own pool of uninterrupted, white light

 

Well, all the artifacts save one.

 

Shrouded in darkness at the center of the room was the prized piece of the exhibition: the tomb of Thorin II.

 

Rather than degrade the dead king with a spotlight, a soft blue glow emanated from cracks in the pillar that supported his sarcophagus. The setup illuminated the intricate relief that ran along the sides of the casket and told the great deeds he’d done in life. Despite the Dragons and Orcs that strained off the walls, the effigy resting on top was so meticulously carved that Bilbo could see the lines of age around Thorin’s eyes and the calluses on his fingers. When Bilbo was a boy he’d daydream about Thorin turning up on his front step to drag him off into an adventure, and now, with Thorin looking all but asleep before him, it was difficult not to contemplate something just the same.

 

Bilbo leaned forward, his breath fogging the glass as he stepped around the case’s corner, trying to get a better glimpse of the crown the artisans had lovingly intertwined with the curls of Thorin’s hair. Bilbo was so caught up in the details that he didn’t notice walking headlong into another person’s chest. “Oh!” he reared back, “I’m sorry I didn’t… see you there.”

 

Bilbo forced himself to finish the statement, despite the way something in his chest seized at the sight of the Dwarf he’d collided with. Some part of Bilbo’s mind catalogued the Dwarf’s sharp cheeks and patrician nose, but Bilbo turned back to the case before he paid the fellow any more attention. Broad, stoic Dwarves who were mature enough to have flecks of silver at their temples didn’t pay attention to slightly pudgy Hobbits. Only, the fellow wasn’t looking away. Bilbo had offered his apology, but rather than turning his attention back to the tomb where it belonged, the Dwarf was still looking at him like he was interesting. Bilbo flushed at the attention and stepped back to his side of the case, only, the glass case didn’t do much to protect Bilbo from the gaze of this Dwarf.

 

Bilbo took drastic measures and side-stepped again, putting himself on the opposite side of the tomb. He forced his eyes down to Thorin II and let his focus be pulled to the effigy’s thick hands. They were wrapped around the hilt of the stone recreation of Orcrist, an Elven sword it was said had been gifted to Thorin II after he repaired his relationship with King Thranduil of the Greenwood. But the interesting thing, the thing that had been puzzling scholars for centuries, was the bundle of three flowers tucked also in the effigy’s fist. No one knew why a Dwarf king would be given flowers on his tomb. (At least, no one said they knew. If the Line of Durin had an inkling they’d kept that information to themselves.)

 

It was well known that some unknown Hobbit had accompanied Thorin II on his journey to reclaim Erebor, and had apparently played an important enough role that for the last seven hundred years Erebor had ignored any detractors who claimed that Hobbits were not built for such a thing. Though the Dwarves had long since forgotten the Hobbit’s name – they called him something in Khuzdul that translated to Dragonthief – they refused to let his existence be forgot.

 

Standing here, looking at the tomb of king who’d travelled with a Hobbit companion, Bilbo couldn’t help but think those flowers had to have come from his kinsman. They were a Hobbit’s way of saying goodbye, of saying “I’ll miss you.” Before his eyes, Bilbo could almost see a downtrodden Hobbit with sagging curls and sad eyes force himself to Thorin’s side. He would stand there for a moment, trying to conjure up all those words he wanted to say, all the things he wanted to shout, then decide there was no point. Thorin would still be dead either way.

 

He could imagine this other Hobbit slipping his fingers between the cold skin of Thorin’s hands, something in his heart shattering at the cold. He would’ve pressed his hand to Thorin’s, palm against palm, before he slipped the stems into Thorin’s hands and rested them back in the perfect poise of death.

 

Bilbo knew though, as any classically trained Hobbit would, that as the flowers were carved they were a bit too perfect. Dwarves preferred their art to have order and symmetry, and the carver had given the puffed blossoms evenly spaced petals so they looked like architecturally perfect domes. In life, these flowers were the color of particularly red chestnuts, with copious white stamens sticking out from amongst haphazardly placed petals. They were not the prettiest of flowers, and probably many a Dwarf over the years had puzzled over why out of all the world’s blossoms the Hobbit had put them in Thorin’s grip.

 

It would take a Hobbit, a Hobbit with a sad story of their own, to know that these blooms were sweet scabious, better known as the Mourning Bride.

 

Bilbo had read every story and every history ever written about that rogue Hobbit who’d gone to Erebor with Thorin II and faced down a Dragon, but never once had he seen someone mention what those flowers suggested. That the little Hobbit who’d left them behind had been burying his lover, or at least someone he’d mourned like one.

 

Bilbo rested his forehead against the glass and gave a pained sigh. This fellow Hobbit had buried his heart and now no one knew the story. No one even knew his name. Bilbo glanced up, trying to break the hold the tomb had on him and the way it made his heart ache. He’d been so wrapped up in puzzling out the story that he’d all but forgotten the Dwarf he’d collided with. But there he was, watching Bilbo puzzle over those delicate blossoms in Thorin’s grip.

 

Bilbo should’ve glowered at the fellow, silently scolding him for staring at Bilbo when he was wrapped up in something so important, but he didn’t. The odd Dwarf had eyes of supernal blue, nearly glowing in the light that came from beneath the tomb. He looked haunting like that, like he was a spirit of some sort sent to guard the casket and the secrets it carried.

 

Bilbo stuck out his chin and crossed his arms, refusing to be intimidated. The show of defiance just made the Dwarf grin. Bilbo stayed firmly in place while the Dwarf slipped around the case and came to Bilbo’s side. He stretched out his hand in a stiff but polite hello, and Bilbo ignored the urge blush. He took the Dwarf’s hard hand in a sturdy grip, but the Dwarf brushed his thumb along the sensitive skin until Bilbo gentled.

 

With the smooth push of Dwarven fingers, Bilbo’s hand was unclenched. They stood there, palm to palm, and Bilbo felt like he’d come home. 


End file.
